


Walls

by dinsoku



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Incest?, Lonely England, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Not-Blood-Related Incest, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 05:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinsoku/pseuds/dinsoku
Summary: After a particularly-infuriating meeting, England is left to deal with all his pent-up frustration and takes it, how else, into his own hands.





	Walls

England was, by all accounts, a lonely man.

It wasn't that that bothered him. Not really. He had learned to cope, to take enjoyment out of his solitude, even. He had his ups and downs, of course, but nothing he couldn't handle.

It was these meetings, though, that always threw everything into a glaring, inescapable forefront. Surrounded by the nations he had known for so, so many hundreds of years, yet still having that familiar nestled feeling of isolation, of peering out over carefully-constructed walls. Walls stacked with bricks _he_ had cut and fired and placed, but had to peer over all the same.

England could withstand the teasing, the sly remarks, the insults, the jabs and gestures. Depending on who it was, he welcomed it, really, and wouldn't hold back on firing off a few of his own.

Those never seemed to stick, though; bouncing so easily off such carefully-constructed walls.

But sometimes a stray one, a misplaced word, or an offhand comment, a little reminder, slipped passed his defences, and England was forced to face the reality he had, admittedly, built for himself. A quiet life. A lonely life. His fingers curled into a light fist as it rested upon his thigh; the current speaker's words drifting into static, background noise.

The meeting called to a close having fallen into the usual nonsense: arguing and, thanks to a certain country across the pond, shouting, of which he was never a fan. Burning, burning anger (from the shouting, and from the offhand comment that had cut him so deeply) spun deep within him until he, finally, was ready to burst and, by that point, organization had fallen apart completely and nations started to mingle or rush off.

England wasn't one to hang around, especially not with all that frustration and pent-up anger flickering about in his stomach. He brushed off anyone who tried to speak with him, muttering a hastily-made excuse about jet-lag, and beelined for his office.

Once inside, both his hands balled up into fists, nails digging into his palms, as he tried so desperately to calm himself down. But all the positive thoughts and stress relieving exercises in the world wouldn't relieve his tension now. He had lived for long enough to figure out what would.

The desk chair was a welcome sight compared to the stiff seats they were always stuck with during the meetings and he practically melted into it, although he wasn't in the best mood to give it the appreciation it probably deserved. He leaned back and drew in a long breath. Easy now.

Hesitant fingers loosened the tie around his neck and unbuttoned his suit jacket; that long, long breath pushing back out his lips. His chest sunk and his shoulders sagged and the anger that bubbled within his stomach birthed a far more pleasant warmth. A warmth that sunk far lower and tingled down his limbs. England's heart quickened, and his hands moved to patch its pace.

His palm ran along the fabric that clung to his stomach, edging just-so, underneath the top of his trousers. _"Arthur."_ That warmth flared again; tickling his senses, bringing forth a pleasant fog that clung to the edges of his mind. He let his head fall back; eyes fluttering shut.

England kept them closed as his fingers tugged at his belt; sliding it off, hearing the satisfying clatter when metal met the floor. His palm pressed down and his legs eased open ever-so-slightly. It had been a while, but this...this would work wonders for him.

A thumb curled underneath the button of his trousers, but he found himself hesitating. He sucked in another breath. The haze of arousal enveloped his thoughts, caught in a metaphorical net, as he teetered off the edge of rational protests and into warm, raging water.

Her fingers were the ones tugging at the button, her breath hot and heavy, mouth mere inches from him. He mumbled a weak deterrent: they were in public, practically, in the coat closet. _"After what you did with your tongue last night? You're not getting away so easily, asshole."_ Guh. England's lips parted and his fingers pulled at his zip; edging the constraining material away and running along the beating heat of his tented boxers.

His— _her_ —fingers ran along the waistband of his pants, brushing against the small tufts of light hair; her touch like an electric shock. _Tease me._ His voice meant to be ordering, demanding, but with a hint of desperation. Lips twisted into something sly, something that made his heart race. Her tongue pressed against the cotton fabric, against him, and his mind was reeling; hips buckling up to meet her.

His eyes parted only for a moment and the illusion was lost. His thumb pawed at his erection through his boxers, movements slow and rhythmic. He swallowed hard. Leaning back once more, his eyes fell shut as his hand moved to curl underneath the thin fabric.

The hand that pushed passed was rough and clinging as two thick thighs straddled him; facial hair numbing his cheek and hot breath tickling his ear. _"I thought you'd be a wee bit bigger."_ He growled; voice thick and wild and— "Fuck off," England hissed into the empty air; a blush of both arousal and, admittedly, stomach-churning shame spreading across his face.

_"Oh? I thought you were the one that wanted this in the first place."_

England's eyes snapped open and he let out a strangled noise, hand gripping the base of his cock. He licked his lips; a wrongness starting to settle deep within him. Best move on. Quickly, too, before he lost his momentum.

His fingertips were blisteringly-hot, his body on fire, despite the vestiges of his last fantasy that clung to the edges of his thoughts. England tipped back. His hand ran along his length and his bit down hard on his lip; brows knitting together.

The hand that dug into his shoulder was massive and powerful; the forehead that pressed against his caked in sweat. His musk overwhelming, drawing England in, promising challenge, rivalry, in a time when no one stood up to him. A shuddering moan slipped passed his lips. _"You will get us caught if you are not careful."_ The voice was low, but the eyes gleamed and gloved fingers clutched his chin. _"Or maybe you want to get caught?"_

_God._ Strength radiated off him as he pressed forward; tip of his cock—far, _far_ more well-endowed than his own—smashed against his. England's breaths were rapid as he edged him closer with sugary words and grand promises. It was a game, always a game, between the two of them. _"You were not always so loud."_ An amused chuckle clashed against cold, knowing eyes. _"Attracted to power, England?"_

"F-fuck!" England screwed up his face; hips buckling into the air. His hair matted with sweat, teeth gritting, as his hand fell up and down his length. The fingers of his unoccupied hand were stuck burrowing into the arm of the chair and he was at that point where he might just give it something to do.

_"Was it something I said?"_ The voice purred, voice smooth, like honey dripping from his lips. England panted. His movements sharp, desperate, rapid; far too preoccupied to shoot him an annoyed scowl. A pause. _Please,_ he ordered— _begged._ _"Pardon...?"_ The smile was playful, not letting him get what he wanted so easily. England bit his tongue so hard he would have believed it if he drew blood.

Vain little shit. Fuck off. _Fuck me._

_S'il vous plaît._

An ugly, arrogant grin and a hand slid down his stomach; words, smooth like silk, tickling his ear. Fingers darted down, passed his own frantic hand, and brushed sensitive skin that had him moaning openly, almost forgetting where he was. He spread his legs apart and an index finger teased along his entrance. _Shitting hell._

_"Such colourful language."_ He admonished and England could oh-so-perfectly picture that _smirk_ behind his words. After easing itself in, one finger, then two, breaths seemed to brush passed his lips faster than he could breathe in. Such skilful, experienced hands found his sweet spot without difficulty and England trembled as he felt himself rush ever-closer to that familiar edge.

England's fingers were buried deep within him; working him up, sending his thoughts in frenzied circles. His breaths panicked gasps. Sweat glued him to the back of the leather chair as he arched and buckled; his hand coming down each time to meet him. Eyes were bleary, face red, muscles tensed. _So close, so fucking close..._

Teeth were on his ear, rough and unyielding, as fingers clawed at the front of his shirt. England's groan rumbled deep, deep within him. Those thighs were wrapped around his torso again and his breath caught—turmoil awakening within him again as he protested weakly.

A bitter laugh. _"Guess I can't keep myself from coming back to your ungrateful arse, can I?"_

" _N_ —" God, he was so close. England screwed his eyes shut, and he found he was too far gone to continue denying himself. _Get on with it._

Just.

Get on with it.

_"No, no. Fuck you,"_ angry words and teeth grazed his ear, _"That's not how this is going to work, mate."_ His neck was assaulted with hot lips and England grunted; panting, gasping, against him.

"Fuck m—" _Fuck me._ His head rolled against the chair; tension swirling, building, deep within him. It was too much, the man was too much. He worked at his neck, all hot and heavy and angry and bitter and disgustingly pleasant. _Fucking hell._

_"Are you there already?"_ England huffed, his motions admittedly haphazard and desperate. He was _right_ there. Body tightened around his fingers, cock strained in his grasp, ready to burst. _"Are you going to come with me on top of you, sick bastard?"_

He forced his hips forward. _N-no._

_"Do it, then."_

Panicked breaths forced themselves passed his lips. Throat dry, tongue swelled. He shouldn't.

Someone else, _anyone else_ —

_"Do it, England."_

"G- _gah_ —!" The noise ripped itself out of him, hardly even a word, let alone a coherent thought, as fire pooled below his stomach and his orgasm shuddered against him. His mind a haze of last-second imagery; hips grasped and shoved forward, his cock disappearing within—

England's body trembled around his fingers. His palm still racing down his length before freezing, clutching, at his base, within _just_ the proper state of mind to angle himself away, slipping back underneath the fabric of his boxers, as long ropes of cum erupted from him.

Relax. Relax. Relax.

He noted his foot awkwardly tilted to one side against the back of his desk; his body having slumped down ridiculously low in his seat during all his excitement. A pleasant tingling, despite his stiff neck and uncomfortable position, travelled up his limbs, to his spine, to leave a light buzz in his head. England's breaths, still quick, began to slow and his eyes lifted up to study the ceiling.

"Fuck's sake." It was more of a haggard breath of a sentence, a heated whisper in the empty air of his office. His fingers eased out of himself and he gripped the flesh of his thigh. His other hand detached itself from his softening cock and fumbled with the desk drawer; the haze in his mind already giving way to the clumsy, uncomfortable post-orgasm ritual.

A few tissues in hand and he set to work tidying himself up. England hissed slightly as the texture brushed against his overly-sensitive tip; sending a weak, echoing image of his last fantasy, back into the forefront of his brain. A well of shame erupted within him.

He laid there; willing the regret away, wishing that the whole endeavour hadn't worked as well as it did.

England was, by all accounts, a lonely man.

He built walls and barricaded himself away and told himself he enjoyed the solitude.

He had his ups and downs.

But he could handle it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Poor England, he can't even have a good wank without feeling ashamed. This is also my first time posting anything like this. I am, honestly, a late-bloomer to writing smut and any and all criticisms or comments would be really useful to me!


End file.
